


sarabande

by legendaryguitarman



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-10-29 03:44:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10845807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/legendaryguitarman/pseuds/legendaryguitarman
Summary: yifan and baekhyun move into their new apartment, order pizza, and have sex, all in that order.





	sarabande

“Place is too damn small,” Yifan grumbled as he flopped down onto the sofa, staring at all the cardboard boxes they’d moved in from downstairs. “I swear it wasn’t this small the last time we came here. I didn’t have to squeeze myself into the living room the last time we came here. There was more __space__ the last time we came here.”  
  
It was kind of small, Baekhyun supposed, but at the same time, he liked it. He closed the door behind him, shutting out the chill from the hallway, and glanced around. They’d only moved in today, heaving boxes since morning from the truck that had left minutes ago, and it felt a bit foreign, the place undecorated and bare. Their belongings were still unpacked, stacked in sellotaped boxes, and though it was a little empty, Baekhyun thought it was cosy. Quaint and small, and for the first time in a long while, he felt at home. Taking care to avoid tripping over the single box Yifan had bothered to open to grab a cushion he’d stolen from the old apartment he used to share with Chanyeol, Baekhyun wriggled himself next to Yifan and pressed himself to Yifan’s chest, revelling in the whine of complaint that sounded from Yifan’s throat. Baekhyun had never really needed much to be happy. Just enough had always been okay, and this was more than enough. This was more than he needed, and perhaps, he thought as he breathed in the scent of shampoo and cologne that had become so familiar to him, home had been right next to him all along. He hadn’t been looking in the right place. Perhaps.  
  
“Well, I think this is what usually tends to happen when you fill the entire apartment with boxes,” said Baekhyun, nudging his face into the juncture of Yifan’s neck and shoulder. Vaguely, he registered Yifan’s hand squeezing his, and oh, when had they—when did Baekhyun’s fingers find themselves buried in the dips between Yifan’s knuckles? Lately, it had been like that: realising things, maybe seconds after, and whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, Baekhyun hadn’t decided yet. “We should start unpacking, I think.”  
  
“I’m too tired to do anything,” Yifan said. He puffed up his face into a pout as Baekhyun snickered at him. It wasn’t a good look on him, but Baekhyun found it cute anyway. “It’s been a long day. Man, what a clusterfuck.” He stretched out like a cat, one without much grace, and yawned. “Can we, like, order pizza and just…sit here for a while?”  
  
Baekhyun squeezed Yifan’s hand in return. He’d always liked how Yifan was so much bigger than him, even if he complained about Yifan making fun of his height. He liked it. He liked a lot of things about Yifan, and it was something he still found overwhelming, the way his heart thumped like loud rain against window-glass.  
  
“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s just stay here for a while.”  
  
Yifan’s chest was warm. Strong. Baekhyun liked that he could feel the steady thumping in Yifan’s ribs with his palm pressed to the thin cotton of his shirt. He liked that Yifan could sneak an arm around his waist easily and pretend he hadn’t, and splay his large hand over Baekhyun’s stomach, creeping up beneath the hem of his shirt. He liked Yifan’s voice, the deep tone as he spoke into his phone, ordering one pepperoni and one anchovy pizza, and the way he could feel the timbre of it through his bones. He liked that he could tilt his head up, just the tiniest bit, and Yifan was there, sleepy eyes and half-chapped lips and freckles that only came out during the summer. Screw it; he’d had plenty of that in-denial crap years ago. He liked Yifan, so much.  
  
Once, someone had told Baekhyun that being together with someone for so long can get tiring. It can get old. Relationships and boyfriends, someone had once said, are like toys. You find someone. You play with them, until someone else comes along. Someone better. Someone who earns more money, has a better job and a nice house and a nice car and can afford to whisk you away on three holidays a year to Europe and the States. Like a jealous child, suddenly, your toy doesn’t look so fun. So you throw away who you have and it’s like a game that never ends, always chasing for the one thing that’s better. But for Baekhyun, Yifan was—he wasn’t ‘just okay’ or ‘better,’ because he wasn’t a toy. He was a person, a real person who was solid underneath Baekhyun’s fingertips as he pulled himself up and touched the nape of Yifan’s neck, and he was…Yifan. Baekhyun had always kept those words close to heart and others as far away as he could push them because more than anything, he used to be afraid, afraid of being the toy and afraid of being played with.  
  
And sometimes, he forgot that this wasn’t a game, but Yifan would remind him. He remembered one sleepy morning, lying in bed and curled into Yifan’s side, not quite perfectly, but there and, somehow, as if he belonged. The puzzle piece analogy seemed appropriate here; they were two puzzle pieces pushed together, all rough and jagged around the edges and not quite fitting perfectly, yet still two pieces of the same picture. Yifan’s hand had been on his nape and his fingers were pushed up into the back, mussed-up part of Baekhyun’s hair where he had slept, and Baekhyun had his thigh wedged between Yifan’s legs. That was how they slept—how they slept now—and Baekhyun remembered pressing his mouth to the smooth skin of Yifan’s collarbones and feeling the hardness beneath. He remembered Yifan stroking his hair, lightly, and saying, Six years is a long time to be scared, and all Baekhyun had said was, And then, I met you. It had been the sort of morning Baekhyun would get up early on, possibly make some tea because coffee was too bitter, and watch television with the absentminded ignorance people watched the news with, but Yifan didn’t live by his terms and that was the hardest part Baekhyun had to face.  
  
Outside, the evening was beginning to set in, and from this side of the building, Baekhyun could see the sky behind the drawn-back curtains and the high buildings, a pretty orange and violet and prettier on Yifan. The light caught Yifan in just the right way. It always seemed to. Baekhyun’s fingers traced over the gilded gold on Yifan’s skin, over the clear juts of his cheeks and the hollows beneath that, and Yifan’s breath hitched. He shivered, tiny and nearly imperceptible, the kind you wouldn’t notice unless you were searching because he was good at holding himself together, but Baekhyun knew Yifan’s body, every inch of it, and he tipped his head to the side as he leaned in, pressing his mouth to Yifan’s lips. It was natural and a little bit clumsy, like they always were when it came to things like these, and Baekhyun curled his fingers into Yifan’s shirt, grounding himself with the soft material in his hands and the molten warmth of Yifan’s mouth. Maybe it was a strange quirk; Baekhyun liked kissing with his eyes open. Yifan’s eyes fluttered shut as he tugged Baekhyun closer, his hand resting on Baekhyun’s thigh, and Baekhyun watched Yifan crumble beneath him.  
  
Yifan’s fist clenched, and then unfurled; he tasted of faint coffee, and Baekhyun’s heart missed a beat. He felt it in his chest, the thump-thump-skip, and he got this feeling, something akin to heat, but a little less hot, a little less urgent, but no less wanting. It spread to his fingertips and his gut, coiled and warm, and every single inch of his body until he was like a simmering flame, and Yifan drew him closer and closer, falling into the firelight. Then he pulled away and sat back, slightly, and opened his eyes, glazed and dark. His hand ran through Baekhyun’s hair, carding through the cowlicks and the messy tufts, and his lips were shiny and cough-drop red, and Baekhyun wanted, he wanted, he wanted.  
  
“You are so,” Yifan began, and the words died in his mouth as Baekhyun kissed him again, chastely. Yifan’s eyes were unwavering, and Baekhyun knew what he wanted to say. He didn’t need to hear it.  
  
“I know,” Baekhyun said, and he surprised himself with how hoarse he sounded. “I know,” he repeated.  
  
The hand on Baekhyun’s thigh came up and Yifan’s thumb brushed over Baekhyun’s wet lower lip. “Still, I wanted,” he said, “to tell you.”  
  
Baekhyun could feel his breath, locked up in his throat, and he forced himself to exhale. “Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah,” answered Yifan.  
  
“Then,” said Baekhyun, “you don’t have any emotional attachment to this couch, do you?”  
  
“The couch?” The couch had been here when they’d moved in, old leather and worn. Yifan shook his head, a little puzzled. “No—which reminds me. We should get a new couch. My mom said she wants to come and visit, so we have to clean up and get new stuff. And you’d better be good, okay? You’d better be”—Baekhyun cut him off with another kiss, his hand cupping Yifan’s cheek—“on your best behaviour.”  
  
“Don’t talk about your mom right now,” said Baekhyun. “And I’m always good. I’m always good for you.”  
  
“Always good, huh?” said Yifan. The realisation was like an epiphany; suddenly, he tilted his head and his grin turned into a smirk, crooked and feral, and Baekhyun liked this side of Yifan as much as he liked all the other sides of him—sleepy in the morning and the night, warm under the covers, overly-confident about his dancing when drunk, and countless, infinite things that Baekhyun hadn’t even discovered yet.  
  
Sex with Yifan wasn’t new or wildly exciting, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t good. It was nice and easy and familiar, and there were times like these when Baekhyun would let himself submit, let Yifan lick his way into his mouth, dirty and hot, and push him down onto the couch, the leather squeaking underneath the sounds of Baekhyun’s breathy gasps. They weren’t college kids anymore, not what they used to be, and Baekhyun was okay with that. Things were changing and they were changing along with it, and it would be okay as long as Yifan was there, with him.  
  
Yifan kissed his mouth and followed his jaw to his neck, sucking a mark by his jugular, and Baekhyun’s hair rasped against the fabric of the sofa as his head lolled back and Yifan whispered, for him, to moan. And he didn’t need to, not really, because Baekhyun had been with guys before who’d liked his voice and how it echoed back from the walls as they hitched his legs up and fucked him with their cock, but when it came to Yifan, Baekhyun didn’t need to pretend; he moaned, quietly, and the sounds filtered through the air, diffident and soft _ah-ah-ahs_ blanketing their skin. Yifan kissed his neck and his collarbones, and precisely bit a mark where everyone would see it, a wolf claiming his territory, and slid his hands underneath Baekhyun’s tee, pushing the hem up to his chest. He knew Baekhyun’s body better than Baekhyun knew it himself; his hands ghosted over Baekhyun’s ribs with a smile as if he were expecting it, and Baekhyun shivered, despite the rising heat in the room.  
  
His pants were tugged and kicked off onto the floor and Yifan paused to sit up, his torso flexing as he tugged off his shirt for no particular reason, really, other than pull out a bitten smile from Baekhyun. And then, he unbuttoned his jeans and they joined the growing pile on the ground. They’d been together for so long that Baekhyun could see Yifan’s body with his eyes closed, seared into his mind—sinewy and lanky with a soft tummy and a faint trail that disappeared under the letter-printed band of his boxers—but he liked it more with his eyes open. During the day, Baekhyun worked as an art consultant, and who would’ve known he would find the most beautiful work waiting for him right at home? There was an elegance to the way Yifan moved, a languid roll as the sunlight melted into the valleys of his body. Yifan wasn’t perfect, but Baekhyun had always loved it better like that, like a unfinished sketch with rough lines and colour spilling out the edges, waiting to be completed. Baekhyun let out the breath he hadn’t noticed he’d been holding and watched the pale skin stretched over Yifan’s back, the sharpness of his shoulderblades and the phantom definition of his muscles, as he moved to grab a bottle from his bag.  
  
“Okay?” he asked almost conversationally, squeezing the transparent gel onto his fingers. They were long and thin, like the rest of him, and Baekhyun sucked his lower lip into his mouth. He brought one leg up, bent at the knee, and the other was draped off the ridge of the couch, toes curling futilely against the hardwood floor.  
  
“Yes,” Baekhyun replied. The lube was cold. Yifan rubbed it into the hollow indent where his thigh met the apex and it dripped on Baekhyun’s skin, absolutely filthy, filthy, filthy. He danced his fingers up with a feather-light touch and wrapped them around Baekhyun’s hard cock, grinning when Baekhyun’s hips jerked into his fist, unrestrained.  
  
“Still okay?” Yifan asked again, and laughed when Baekhyun pushed himself up on his elbows and glared down at Yifan. “Are you going to be good for me?”  
  
“I might have to be bad if you won’t hurry up,” hissed Baekhyun.  
  
Yifan’s grip tightened, squeezing a moan from Baekhyun’s throat, and he drew himself up to Baekhyun’s face and kissed the side of his neck. He nudged his nose to Baekhyun’s jaw at the same time as his hand dropped down and pressed against Baekhyun’s hole, just tracing the rim. Baekhyun tensed, like he always did at the beginning, and Yifan peppered kisses on his throat and he relaxed. One finger was easy, and then Yifan fucked him with two and three and he wondered what he looked like, what Yifan saw, wrecked and ruined. His face felt hot; maybe there were blotches, flushed to his chest, or maybe Yifan wasn’t looking at all, breathing in the salt on his skin.  
  
Constantly, Baekhyun felt like he was on a cusp. Just teetering on the precipice—one side was nothing, bare and blank and lonely, and the other side was an abyss. Deep and endless; if he looked down, there was nothing to see. Endless space, and in the midst of it all, he would see a hand reaching out to him, and the times like now, as Yifan steadied himself with his hand on Baekhyun’s abdomen, he would reach back and intertwine their fingers together. He would let himself fall because he knew, as Yifan pressed into him and he sighed with his arms wrapping around Yifan’s broad shoulders, Yifan would be there to catch him, that much he was certain of. And if the path ahead was unseeing and foggy, he knew he would be okay because Yifan would be there to anchor him when things dropped and rose, a fluctuating trajectory.  
  
“I think,” Yifan huffed out, his hips moving fluidly, filling Baekhyun again and again as he twisted a hand in Baekhyun’s hair and tugged back so he could hear the sounds that tumbled from Baekhyun’s mouth, “I am so in love with you.”  
  
“Mm-hmm,” Baekhyun hummed. His hand clenched into a fist and his nails dug into his palms instead of the bone of Yifan’s shoulder. Yifan caught his mouth and his lip between his teeth, and smiled into the kiss. “I know that too.”  
  
“And I still want to tell you that too,” said Yifan, “because sometimes, I think you forget.”  
  
“Then you don’t give me enough credit,” said Baekhyun, and Yifan gave him that odd half-smile, like he knew more than he was letting on, and kissed the corner of his lips.  
  
He came in a ragged moan with Yifan mouthing against his neck, _I love you,_ over and over again, and distantly noticed the sporadic twitch of Yifan’s hips as he followed a short while later. Afterwards, Yifan cleaned him up with the pack of tissues he had stashed at the bottom of his rucksack and they lay together on the couch. The sofa was too small for two grown men, but they could just about fit by squashing up next to each other. Yifan touched the palm of his hand, the one that lay by the side of his thigh, and he yielded, letting Yifan thread their fingers together. Yifan brought his hand up to his chest and Baekhyun could feel the beat that pulsed beneath until it slowed.  
  
The afterglow was the part Baekhyun liked the most. For a long time, neither of them moved; Yifan’s eyes fell shut and Baekhyun listened to the sound of him breathing, the short inhale-exhale through his nose, mixed with the sound of his own breathing, which seemed to much louder to his ears, and he turned his head to the side so he could watch the sky darken and the sun set on Yifan’s face. Yifan had always been a person that Baekhyun admired a lot. He was strong and sturdy and build himself from his own two feet, and Baekhyun was a little bit clumsy and he wasn’t sure if he would hold onto the fragile, invisible thread that tethered them together. Or rather, he knew he would; he wasn’t sure if he could. Seeing Yifan like this, vulnerable and delicate, made something in Baekhyun’s chest clench, and he didn’t know why, but he wanted to hold onto that thread tighter, as tightly as he could, and even at the end of the infinitude, he wanted to hold on.  
  
Eventually, he pulled his hand loose and Yifan cracked one eye open to look at him. Baekhyun reached down to grab his pants and wriggled into them before he threw Yifan’s shirt at him.  
  
“Put it on,” he said. “Or you’ll catch a cold.”  
  
Yifan had a shitty immune system. He’d gotten sick around four times last winter, and then Baekhyun had gotten sick because of that. It was a bad time, for both of them, but at least they could huddle together in Chanyeol’s apartment, ignoring his half-hearted complaints. Yifan spluttered and scowled as he pulled it on, and Baekhyun lay back down, his head resting over Yifan’s arm. He blinked and looked up at the ceiling. Some of the wallpaper was peeling off, the vertex where the sides and the ceiling met, and fleetingly, he was reminded of the time Yifan fucked him in the shower, pressing his spine to the tiles that had misted up with the heat of Baekhyun’s breath. Not that it had much relevance, but Yifan was absentmindedly drawing circles on the back of his hand and the memory had resurfaced.  
  
“I won’t catch a cold,” said Yifan.  
  
“You will.”  
  
“I won’t.”  
  
“You said that last time, and guess who was the one who had to put up with all your gross sneezing and sniffing?” said Baekhyun. “Yeah. Won’t catch a cold, my ass.”  
  
Baekhyun knew the conversation was won when Yifan rolled on top of him and kissed him so he would stop talking, slow and easy. The frantic desperation had gone, sated out of their systems, and Baekhyun pushed away the strands of hair that fell into Yifan’s eyes. After they would have sex, Yifan would always get this glowing kind of iridescence about him, a kind of visual happiness, and so Yifan kissed him until he did, too.


End file.
